


Making Progress

by mckayla (steveromanov)



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Almost Kiss, Drinking, F/M, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveromanov/pseuds/mckayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thing is, princess, I know as much about women as a guy like me <i>can</i> know. And I think I know well enough about you.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>He hums, low and long. “I know that you don’t loathe me as much as you like to pretend. I know that, beneath it all, you actually quite like me—and my roguishly handsome looks.”</p><p>—</p><p>In which Leia is a little drunk, Han is more than a little drunk, and Artoo pretends to be drunk. And a first kiss almost happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi this is my first fic for this pairing and in this fandom and i'm lowkey anxious about it so go easy on me! Other than that, I hope you enjoy. Sorry if it's OOC, i'm still working out the kinks, but I personally don't think it's too bad.

Leia doesn’t usually do this. With her role in the Alliance—in the whole damn galaxy, for that matter—she doesn’t really have the _time_ to do stuff like this, to sit back and relax, deplete bottles of smuggled, top-quality liquor that Han had kept for himself from shipments over the years. She typically doesn’t have time to _celebrate_. But the Alliance has just won their first battle against the Imperials since they were driven off of Yavin’s moon, and she can’t exactly say that just one night of reveling will bring doom down on all of their heads, so here she is. Besides, she also has to admit that the alcohol does make her body fare well against the biting temperatures of Hoth. She’s not sure she’ll ever get used to the cold. Part of her wishes the Empire’ll drive them out of this base, too.

She’s been nursing a humble glass of Alderaan wine that she remembers her parents used to serve all the time to established guests at parties or formal dinners, and the strong, aged taste is just enough to keep her from slipping into melancholic thoughts of her youth. It _is_ potent—she’s only been sipping the liquid for half an hour and she already feels the heat in her cheeks and chest. She decides it must really be strong when she finds herself genuinely giggling at a far-fetched and overenthusiastic story Han is telling to a few pilots and Luke sitting around him a few feet away from where she herself is seated, something about a card game he’d once been in involving a ten-armed Besalisk (despite the standard anatomy), a foul-mouthed droid, and a Rodian. Once Leia’s giggles are heard, Han stops the ludicrous and slightly dangerous arm-waving he tends to do mid-tale and slowly turns his head to her, his smirk carrying its usual smugness but also tinged with a bit of surprise. He’s more than a little inebriated himself, if the slight glassiness in his brown eyes and flush to his neck is anything to go by. Leia presumes that the mysterious black bottle of Kashyyykian liquor he’s been clutching in his hand wasn’t exactly made for the lightly weighted, either. She doesn’t back down from the challenge his leer seems to carry.

“Why, princess, had I known you were really listening, I would’ve kept the tale much less crude,” he drawls sarcastically, lips quirked in a lopsided smile. She doesn’t fail to notice how the pilots shift uncomfortably in their seats—or how Luke sighs in affectionate exasperation. While Luke has gotten used to her and Han’s bickering, the others still don’t know how to react to him purposefully grating the leader of the Rebellion’s nerves.

“Your nature in itself is crude. I’ve, unfortunately, gotten used to it,” she replies, taking another sip of her drink.

“Oh? So you’re finally admitting that you’ve warmed up to me.”

“In your dreams, moof-milker. I said I’ve gotten _used_ to your lewdness. It—and you—still bother me to no end.”

Despite that, Han lifts his long arms at his sides, bottle dangling carelessly between his equally long fingers, and says, “Progress, sister. We’re making it.”

“I think alcohol makes your perception of women even muddier, Han.”

This earns her a snicker from Luke, who in turns earns a drunken glare from Han. Luke himself hasn’t touched any alcohol at all, though he seems just as cheerful about their victory as the rest—and thoroughly amused by his friends’ inebriated states around him.

Han lifts a finger off of his bottle’s neck and points it at him. “Laugh it up, kid. I’m sure you’ve had plenty experience with women on sand central.”

“Actually,” Luke says, standing and smiling, “I think I understand Leia just fine.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it was.”

Chewbacca inputs his agreement from across the room.

“Chewie, shut up.” He turns back to Luke. “No, I wasn’t.”

Luke’s smile is still broad and teasing, but he doesn’t deign to further the argument. “Well, I’m going to turn in for the night. Big mission tomorrow. Evening, Leia.”

As Leia waves him goodbye, Han mutters, “I’ve got a furry traitor as a best friend. Figures.” To Chewie’s reply, he slurs, “Yeah, you are, you big furball. S’okay, though. I’ll forgive you, eventually.” Seeing that the pilots who’d been previously listening to him gone, he stumbles his way around the makeshift seats to where Leia’s sitting on a long sofa scavenged from an abandoned town they’d visited on their way to Hoth to search for any survivors from a previous Imperial attack (there hadn’t been any).

She regards him with a raised eyebrow, knocking back some more of her wine. “I think you’re drunker than you realize.”

“Sweetheart, trust me—I realize. Chewie gifted a crate of this to me on my first birthday with him. Stuff’s so strong that I’ve only plowed through four bottles, and it’s been years. Time’s just makin’ it stronger.” He shrugs, though it’s lacking finesse. She’s surprised that she’s just now noticing that, yes, despite his general behavior, Han _actually_ has some. “I typically only save it for important occasions.”

“This is an important occasion to you?”

“Well, of course. A big win after a long dry spell? Do _you_ not consider this an important occasion? I mean, I knew you could be pretty pessimistic sometimes, but…”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You’ve been meaning to leave the resistance for months. I didn’t know you cared.”

He actually seems offended. “I hate the Empire just as much as you folks, but don’t go throwing that word around. It’s heavy. And I _have_ been meaning to leave—I’ve got debts to pay, sister—but you all have got me smuggling supplies left and right. Who am I to resist?”

“You’re being paid, so you won’t.”

His grin is so wide it must hurt. “Precisely.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Leia’s half convinced that this is the longest they’ve gone without speaking, let alone arguing, in each other’s presence since they’ve first met. She also becomes increasingly aware that she’s finished her glass of wine when she finds herself pouring another—and the fact that pretty much everybody else has left the room, carrying the celebration elsewhere. Han has leaned closer to her on the couch, his shoulder just barely brushing hers. He smells like metal, engine grease, and liquor, with a hint of soap underneath it all. And _she’s_ either drunker than she realizes or the day’s events have just worn her out more than usual, because she doesn’t shift away.

She briefly wonders if this is how her life would be had she not joined the Rebellion—drinking expensive alcohol and leaning against the arm of a decidedly handsome boy (even if this certain one frustrates her more than anyone she’s ever known). She quickly decides that, no, her life would not be like that. It’s not in her nature. It never _was_ in her nature to flit from party to party, talk politics and sip wine and feast on the finest of meals. She never much cared for any of the suitors who were lined up for her, nor the way they held her hand like a delicate flower, kissing her knuckles like its even more delicate petals. Don’t get her wrong; she’s good at navigating her way through those types of crowds. And the luxury never disgruntled her, either. But she can easily fare in the most decrepit places, the harshest conditions. _That’s_ Leia’s nature. And here—fighting against the Empire, she means,  _not_ sloping into Han Solo’s firm, aggravatingly warm-under-the-circumstances body—is exactly where she belongs.

His voice breaks her out of her thoughts. It’s still slurred, he’s probably been polishing off the rest of his bottle while she’d been daydreaming, but it’s quieter, too. Almost timid, if she didn’t know who she was talking about. “I do care though, you know.”

“Hm?” She hears her _own_ voice and briefly wonders if she’d been subconsciously finishing her own bottle, too.

“I—me—care,” he says, almost hiccups, and she nods, despite herself. “Not about the Rebellion. I mean—I’m not ready to admit that to you yet, because I’m winning.” He grins at this, and she’s not precisely sure what he means. It probably has something to do with the unspoken competition they have going on between them whenever they get into arguments, although he’s the only who’s keeping score (mostly). “What I’m trying to say is that I’m capable of caring.”

“I know. About four things, exactly,” she replies. He opens his mouth to argue, but she starts listing them on the fingers not wrapped around her glass before he can. “Yourself, money, Chewie, and the _Falcon_. Not in that order, because the lines after _you_ start to get exceedingly blurred.”

“You’re right. But you’re wrong.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m _saying_ ,” he strains, actually strains, because she can see that he’s growing frustrated with his inability to properly convey his meaning and _her_ inability to understand that meaning. He closes his eyes, and for a moment Leia thinks that he’s actually fallen asleep. But then he starts talking again. “I’m saying that yes, I care about me, money, Chewie, and my ship. But I can care about other things too. _Have_ cared about other things. People. In the past. Before all… this.” He waves his hand about his head carelessly, and it’s a wonder how he doesn’t knock either of them in the skull.

“Is that so?”

“Very much so.”

She leaves it at that, because while part of her is interested in what other things this man has cared about besides the four aforementioned subjects, the other part of her feels like they’re too drunk—and not close enough—to have such a serious conversation. At least, it feels serious. Luke’s more suited to have this talk with him. Luke’s not drunk. Luke actually likes Han and Han actually likes Luke.

…But Leia likes Han too, when she’s too intoxicated to stop herself from admitting it. Such as now.

Yes. She’s very drunk. That, at the moment, is the only thing that is remarkably clear.

Leia doesn’t push, but Han continues anyway. “And I do know enough about women, your General Highness. That and the fact that I am capable of _caring_ coincide.” His tongue starts to get tied near the end.

“Just because you’re a womanizer does not mean you’ve learned everything there is to know about women.”

She’s under the impression that they’re doing the back-and-forth thing they usually do, so when his voice comes out soft and melancholic in a low mutter, her brain stutters for a response. “Haven’t always been a womanizer, you know.”

Okay, her brain _more_ than stutters, because she doesn’t say anything at all.

“Her name was Br—well, it don’t matter what her name was, anymore,” he sighs. “Thing is, princess, I know as much about women as a guy like me _can_ know. And I think I know well enough about you.”

“Is that so?”

He hums, low and long. “I know that you don’t loathe me as much as you like to pretend. I know that, beneath it all, you actually quite like me—and my roguishly handsome looks.”

She rolls her eyes at his crooked grin and lies, “Wrong.”

Han suddenly sits up, like he’s detected her lie and it’s only encouraging him to go on. She fights the urge to back away once he leans forward, his face mere inches apart from her own. His bangs flop in front of his eyes, his arm rests on the top of the sofa beside her shoulder, and his smile broadens. Still, he’s actually leaving a respectable amount of space between the two of them, though only just so. Han’s many things, but he’s surprisingly not forceful. _Forward_ , on the other hand…

“C’mon. Admit it, Ladyship. You like me _and_ my face.”

“You’re drunk, Han.”

“Yeah? So are you.”

“Not drunk enough to say such a thing,” she says, which is also a lie, because she’s feeling pretty loose-lipped herself. She’s just better at controlling it.

“So it’s in there somewhere? I was right.”

“No.”

It’s fruitless, because he’s already started to lean forward, and she’s already begun to stare at his mouth.

“Really? Because it sort of seems like I was right.”

“Far off the mark, space head,” she replies, and she hates that it comes out as a defeated whisper.

His soft smile is full of equal parts victory, amusement, and disbelief. “Thought so.”

Leia can’t— _doesn’t_ —want to fight whatever is pulling them towards one another, despite every single alarm that is currently sounding off inside of her head. She feels this _lull_ in and around her, can even feel it in and around Han, and it’s so strong that she feels like she can control it, maybe, but all she wants to do is let it control her. For a moment, she thinks it’s only his incredible warmth, how it seems to ease away the chill that this base’s weather sets in her bones, but she quickly realizes that it’s something _more_. Something she can’t explain. Something that she thinks she recognizes, only…

A series of sloppy beeps sound, and then, “Please do excuse Artoo, he just had his gears freshly greased and is now under the influence that he is… well, under the influence. Pretending, that is. His behavior seems to have been inspired by that of our companions.” At Threepio’s indefinitely fretful voice, Han and Leia jump apart—or, rather, it’s Leia who jumps away, and Han who lets out a frustrated groan and drops his head in defeat. “Oh my, were we interrupting something? I am terribly sorry—”

“ _No_ ,” Leia hastily interrupts.

“ _Yes_ ,” Han, obviously chagrined, says at the same time.

Artoo beeps again.

“I am not telling them that, you box of bolts,” Threepio says, then turns back to the two humans before him. While Leia is trying her best to avoid looking in Han’s direction, she can sense the way that he’s glaring at the two droids in complete exasperation. “We were just… looking for Master Luke. So we’ll be on our way, then. Have a pleasant evening.”

As they wobble away, Artoo beeps some more and Threepio bends down toward the smaller droid to quietly chastise, “No, it is none of our business. Absolutely not! If it means so much to you, then I suggest you tell them yourself. Let us see how much you like being deactivated, because I know I will surely enjoy the quiet.”

Han and Leia sit in silence as the sounds of the droids fade. She sits with her head turned away from him, her lips still tingling from the sensation of almost touching another’s. She’s not entirely sure what to feel, not entirely sure what to make of the fact that she almost kissed Han— _wanted_ to kiss him, at that. Suddenly, she feels entirely too sober.

When he speaks, Han sounds decidedly less drunk as well. “Leia…”

It’s one out of maybe two times he’s called her by her first name in the year and a half they’ve known each other. It’s enough to drill what almost happened home. She stands, suddenly; can’t look him in the eye as she says, “I should turn in. Luke’s not the only one who’s got a busy day tomorrow.”

In the morning, she pretends that she had been too drunk the night before to remember anything that had nearly transpired.

Han, to her surprise, lets her get away with it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive and friendly reviews are appreciated <3 Also, this is written before i've gotten the chance to read the standalone Han novels so I don't know much about his romance with Bria other than that it happened and that it's now obviously not happening anymore. I really don't know how deep their relationship went, tbh. I just took a chance with it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I wasn't going to expand on this. But then I did. So cheers to that lol. Thanks for the lovely feedback from those who commented! Also the beginning of this is mostly (alright, entirely) inspired by the scene in ESB when Han tells Leia he's leaving and he gets all pouty when she doesn't react how he wants and then she follows him and beautiful arguments ensue.

“I’m staying,” Han says to her one afternoon, while she’s looking over potential flaws in weapons designs and he’s tinkering with some part of the _Falcon_ across from her. They had been sitting in what she’d been tentative to call companionable silence, as if that single thought would shatter it. As usual, it really only takes Han to do that.

Still, she’s sort of confused—she’d been busy, focused on more important things, so she’s not entirely following. “I don’t remember telling you to leave.”

“I meant here. With the Alliance. On this icicle of a base, no less,” he clarifies.

For a moment (a very, _very_ brief moment), all she does is blink at him. Then, “That’s good.”

He scowls. He looks almost… _offended._ “Just ‘good’?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say? That it’s bad? Because then that’d be a lie.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, abandoning his current project with a disbelieving scoff. What’s there to disbelieve? Han’s a great help to the Alliance, and they certainly can use all the help they can get. Predictably, his demeanor only serves to ruffle her feathers. “And had it been Luke who’d said ‘that’s good’, would you still be acting so insufferable?”

“Insufferable? I like the sound of that. Makes me seem more prestigious than I actually am.” The grin that spreads over his lips at her eye roll is wide, if not brief, because suddenly he’s up and leaning over the table, one palm planted right in the center of it for support and the other pointing an accusatory finger at her face. She doesn’t sit back, even though that means that she has to look up to see him. “No, I wouldn’t be acting so insufferable if it were Luke, because it’s different with him.”

She narrows his eyes. “And how would that be, Han?”

“Oh, princess, coy’s not a good look on you. And here I thought everything suited you pretty nicely,” he replies, and even though he seems a little frustrated, he’s also complimenting her in such a casual way that she hates how she wants to blush even more than if he’d done it directly. Thankfully, it’s too goddamn cold to spare any extra blood to rush to her cheeks, so she simply frowns. “I’ve let it go for a while now. But you _almost_ kissed me that night, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it—or how much I want to reassemble Threepio’s parts for interrupting us. So, no, just ‘good’ doesn’t really cut it for me, sister. Because I know.”

 _That night._ It’d only been a few weeks since their first major victory—and subsequent celebration—against the Empire. Only a few weeks since she nearly kissed Han Solo in her drunken state. The most alarming thing about that thought, however, is that Leia’s almost positive that the wine wasn’t so much as influencing the fact that she wanted to kiss him, but _amplifying_ it. She’d shelved that notion just as soon as it’d flittered into her mind, and she hasn’t thought of it since. Until now. She’d been under the impression that maybe Han had been too drunk to remember what almost happened, or simply didn’t care enough to bring it back up again, but apparently not.

The proud grin that he’s currently wearing is both infectious and infuriating, but Leia’s willpower is strong. And she doesn’t want to admit to him that yes, _at the time_ kissing him hadn’t seemed so bad. For some reason every bone in her body is unwilling to give him the satisfaction. She can’t stand to see him anymore smug than he already is.

“You know what, exactly?” She asks slowly, making sure that he hears the undercurrent of impatience she’s making an effort to display in her voice.

It doesn’t even begin to make him falter. “You like me, so much so that you were ready to _kiss me_ , and alcohol doesn’t mean a thing.” She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off. “Because I was damn well more marinated than you were, sweetheart, and I remember every detail.”

“If that’s the case, then you remember how you’ve already brought this particular ‘me liking you’ subject up. Clearly we don’t need to talk about it again.”

She stands up to leave, swiping the schematics off of the table and stalking out of the room. She doesn’t have to look back to know that Han’s right on her heels, and she curses how he has the advantage of long legs when he catches up to her in the middle of the outer corridor.

“Hold on a second, sister,” he says when she tries to ignore him and continue on, but he curls his hand around her shoulder and she has to buck it off. Still, she knows that Han will just follow her around the whole base until she actually concedes to have this discussion with him instead of just doing it now.

“What?” She snaps. It makes her so mad that he’s not at least a little dissuaded by how she’s reacting. It makes her even madder knowing that he’s able to read through her so well.

“You know, I don’t see what the big problem is. What’re you so scared of?”

She bristles. “I’m not scared.”

“I think you are.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“I think you do.”

“I—” She stops, glancing up at him to find that he’s walked into her space, so close that she can smell the Alliance-issued soap they all use only it’s also tinged with scents that she can only ever associate with _him_. Metal. Engine grease. Smoke from being caught in numerous malfunctioning repairs on the _Falcon_. It’s almost enough to stop her, but then he’s grinning again, too arrogant for her liking. She shoves him away with an undignified huff. “You’re a no-good, haughty, poor excuse for a lame bantha.  And I really _don’t_ care what you think, because none of it’s true. Now, if you’ll finally let me leave, I have work to do, _General._ ”

With that, Leia pushes past him and marches down the corridor, gripping the schematics so close to her chest that she can feel the blood leaving her knuckles. Still, that's not what's bothering her most, not when she can imagine the annoying smirk on Han’s face as he watches her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this fic might just turn into a series of pre-relationship one-shots. I haven't decided. But I just keep getting ideas because I've been watching the original movies over and over again this past week and am being haunted by Han/Leia feels.


End file.
